


an avid collector

by vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 22:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13623003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: Harold Egret has quite the reputation.





	an avid collector

 

 

Whispers of Harold Egret has been travelling underground for some time now, striking more fear into the hearts of criminals than the name Carl Elias ever did.  It’s been rumoured that this Mr. Egret has been pivotal in the downfall of the Five Dons, the Russians, HR, and even the Brotherhood, and that he has been instrumental—if not solely responsible—for the continuous pervasive power Elias still holds across all his territories, sparking speculation as to whether Elias is truly dead, considering his body has never been found.

Then there are the whispers that go deep, so secret and so feared that it’s almost urban myth, about the rise of artificial super intelligence and two gods engaged in a digital war and bodies that disappear without a trace and a tense, palpable change in the air—like the dawning of a new era—and how this mysterious Mr. Egret seems to be at the centre of the quiet destruction around him, like the calm in the eye of a storm.

It seems that whoever Mr. Egret chooses to ally with is the side that always wins in any war, and he’s determined not to get on this mysterious overlord’s bad side.

He’s been building up such a fearsome image in his mind that when the old cripple in glasses limps up to him, he doesn’t really register _legendary and elusive criminal mastermind_ until the man speaks.

“Carlos, I presume?” he inquires, and he has a casually uncaring Victorian air about him, like a man used to owning slaves—and punishing them when they step out of line.  “Do you have what we came here for?”

Carlos blinks out of his stupor.  The man is flanked by two diminutive women on either side: one with a smile caught somewhere between serene and psychotic, and one with an expression so flat and cold he thinks that one might actually be a robot.  Towering behind them is a brooding man with shadowed eyes that seem to have seen a thousand deaths—because he’s the one who caused them.

Carlos swallows.  Front and centre, an honest to god attack dog growls menacingly, saliva dripping from his gleaming fangs to his spiked collar, visibly vibrating with leashed power and being held in place by the man they are all surrounding, who Carlos is only now beginning to realise is their _boss._

Carlos stares.   _This_ is _the_ Harold Egret?  This… unassuming man who looks less like someone who singlehandedly holds the key to the criminal underworld and looks more like a professor, or a criminally boring _librarian_?

Smiling Woman steps forward, the heels of her boots clacking loudly on the floor of the warehouse.  “While your impression of a gaping fish is highly amusing, Carlos, Mr. Egret’s time is very valuable, and you’re wasting it by the second.”  Her smile freezes in place as a maniacal glint flashes in her eyes.  “You don’t want to know how exactly that will cost you.”

Carlos’ lips thin as he presses them together, refusing to let himself be intimidated.  He reaches under the table and dumps two duffel bags on top of them.  Without breaking eye contact with the creepily Smiling Woman, he unzips both bags.  “Money,” he says crisply as he tips one bag forward to show its contents, and moves to the other.  “And weapons.”

Robot Woman strides forward and peers dispassionately at the contents.  “Dunno how you guys do your inventory,” she intones blandly, “but even I can see that _this_ isn’t complete.” Her gaze flicks to Carlos with narrowed eyes. “Where’s the rest of the supplies we ordered?”

Sweat is trickling down his back and under his arms and his heart rate is speeding up in its natural fight or flight response to _danger,_ but Carlos refuses to be cowed.  “You’re not getting anything more until I have insurance,” he declares, inwardly congratulating himself for how steady his voice is, despite the fact that his legs are beginning to shake from the way Egret himself is now staring at him.  “What do I get in return?”

In the ensuing silence, Carlos swears he has just seen his life flash before his eyes.

Egret raises a hand to halt Brooding Man’s sudden movement toward him.  The way Egret presses the back of his hand to Brooding Man’s chest seems almost tender, if not for the frigid eyes flashing behind those wire-rimmed glasses.  Brooding Man yields, but his gaze never leaves Egret as the man himself limps forward to assess the contents of the bags himself.  Both women watch him and fall back as an unspoken gesture of deference _._ Only the dog falls into step with Egret, body pressed close to its master, dropping to the floor only when Egret murmurs something to it in a foreign language.

Carlos swallows, feeling as if Egret has just somehow _saved_ him.  

He watches as Egret runs his fingers over the weapons delicately; Carlos can’t help but notice that the man’s hands are soft and free of the calluses one should have when handling weapons on a regular basis.  

His eyes narrow.  This is a wealthy man’s hands.

“Do you know why people have collections, Carlos?” Egret murmurs; Carlos distinctly feels like he’s being flayed alive by that spine-chilling look.  “It’s for the variety,” Egret continues, not waiting for an answer.  “Your organisation, for example, is an avid collector of unmarked weaponry, remarkable for possessing those so rare they can’t be found anywhere else—not even in the black market.  It’s why I approached you; you’re the best in the business.”

Egret places his palms flat on the table and leans forward, and it takes all of Carlos’ willpower not to recoil when Egret whispers to his face:  “Do you know what _I_ collect, Carlos?”

Egret actually smiles at him before he leans back and gestures with a flourish to the people behind him.

“Assassins,” he declares with a disturbing sense of pride.  “I collect _assassins_ , Carlos, which is truthfully just an antiquated euphemism for trained killers.”  

Carlos can feel his shirt beginning to be drenched in sweat as Egret tilts his head at him.  “Do you know why, Carlos?”  

He has a sinking feeling humouring Egret right now is a matter of life and death, so Carlos croaks: “… Why?”

He nearly jumps when Egret claps his hands together.  “For the variety, of course, haven’t you been listening?” the man says brightly.  “You see, each of these wonderful assassins behind me has their own distinct way of killing.  Their own brand, so to speak.”  Egret takes on a dreamy look, and when he next speaks, he sounds genuinely sincere. “It’s beautiful, watching the way they work.  Such under appreciated art.”

Carlos can feel the sweat trickling from his forehead to his lashes and he furiously blinks them away.  He steals a glance at the three killers behind Egret, and the hard expressions on their faces as they watch Egret move have now melted into varying degrees of _fondness._

It’s _insanity_ , Carlos thinks hysterically, and it’s the only excuse that has him suddenly reaching for the .38 concealed under the table.  

On his next blink, he finds himself staring straight into the muzzle of a .45 positioned calmly between his eyes.

“Touch him and you die.”

Robot Woman finally cracks an emotion and actually smirks.  “Piece of advice, Carlos: he’s actually telling the truth.  The dog _will_ kill you.”

Carlos’ gaze flicker to the dog, which has now risen from the floor, growling under its breath with all its hackles raised, powerfully compact body curved and coiled and ready to spring forward at its master’s command.

Smiling Woman heaves a deep sigh and tilts her head forward meaningfully.

Carlos glances up into Brooding Man’s eyes, which narrow at him in warning.

Oh. _That_ dog.

Shakily, Carlos unclenches his fingers from the trigger, moves his hands from under the table and slowly raises them, palms facing outward in a universal gesture of harmlessness.

Brooding Man calmly flicks off the safety from his gun.  Carlos gulps.

Egret’s tone is uncharacteristically gentle.  “No need for that,” he murmurs as he gracefully steps between them and lays a hand on Brooding Man’s shoulder.  Brooding Man remains unmoving, until Egret slides his palm down the other man’s outstretched arm, slow and deliberate and oddly… _proprietary_.  Egret’s fingers close on the other man’s wrist, and finally, Brooding Man tears his gaze away from his target to look at Egret.  Something unspoken passes between them as Brooding Man finally lowers his weapon, Egret’s hand on his the entire time, their gazes unwavering on each other.

Carlos holds his breath, feeling strangely like a _voyeur._

“This is your insurance, Carlos,” Egret says quietly.  “I’m giving you a choice.”

Carlos exhales shakily, knowing he’s going to regret asking.  “… On what?”

Slowly, Egret turns to face him.  The lens of Egret’s glasses catch the light from the overhead lamp, and in that terrifying moment, Carlos catches the flashing eyes of a true _monster_.

“On what type of death you want bestowed upon yourself,” Egret coolly declares, “by having your choice of assassin to perform their unique brand of artistry upon you.”

Horrified, Carlos watches as all three assassins move to stand next to each other behind their boss, displaying themselves like depraved contestants on a twisted dating game.

“Pick wisely.”  Egret smiles serenely.  “There might not be anything left of you for the dog.”

 

* * *

 

“Shaw. Just so you know, I don’t share.”

“Good to know, big lug, neither do I.”

“Oh come on, Root, even you gotta admit that was _hot_.  Enjoyed yourself huh, Finch?  Reese, your boner is showing.”

“Tell your boy to stay down, Mr. Reese.  And no, I don’t mean _Bear_.”

“Well Harold, maybe you can help me take care of it.  You’re the reason it wants to come out and play.”

“… That was _terrible_ , John.”

“Ooh, can we watch?”

“No need, Sameen, She’ll be recording everything.”

“Live show streaming?   _Nice_.  I _like_ this Machine.”

“Oh _for_ _goodness’ sake._ Are we just going to leave him… lying there?”

“Relax, Harry, he just fainted.  Lionel’s on his way to pick up our boy Carlos here, along with the rest of his supplies.”

“So we got what we need, then?”

“Yes, Mr. Egret.”

“Please don’t call me that ever again.”

“Geez, Reese, no need to look so dejected, there’s such a thing as _roleplay—_ ”

“ _Everyone.  Please.  Stop._ ”

“… Yes, Mr. Egret.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse; just a self-indulgent desire to see more of this particular persona of Harold's. The show deprived us of the frighteningly ingenious beauty that is Mr. Egret—and of how the rest of Team Machine might have reacted to seeing this particular side of him, given that they're all canonically wildly attracted to it.


End file.
